Blood-drenched Beard : A Novel (9781101635612) (39 page)

The morning he is released, he uses the money that Dália brought him to catch a bus to the Florianópolis bus station, where he has lunch and buys a ticket to Garopaba. When he arrives, he goes straight to Dália's house, although she is still at work in Imbituba. Beta prances about when she sees him, and Dália's mother says that she gave her a lot of food so she'd regain her weight. She starts relaying another dream she had about him, but he stops her and says he already knows. This time a woman with black hair comes out of a swamp with a child. She stares at him in silence. That's what you dreamed, right? She nods. You shouldn't waste your time dreaming about me, ma'am. He downs the last sip of coffee, thanks her for everything several times, and congratulates her on her daughter's engagement. He promises to return to pay her back for the dog food.

He passes through the middle of the fishing village at dusk, Beta close at heel, with fresh nicks on his face from the nurse who shaved him that morning. He goes into the supermarket and spends the rest of the money in his pocket on bread, butter, coffee, a bunch of bananas, and a credit voucher for his cell phone. Several locals are out on the sidewalks and on the verandas of their homes after the day of sun. Clothes and pillows are being taken in from windows, fences, and clotheslines. The air is filled with the smells of the salty breeze, fish gravy, and corn cakes coming out of the oven. The ocean looks like a stained-glass window in motion, as if the light of the setting sun were coming from underwater and the beach were the inside of a church, but the water smells of oil and sewage. And there, perched on the hill, is the apartment he wanted so badly to live in and did. He opens the shutters to let air into the living room and stays there in the dark until the streetlight in front of his window comes on and casts its light inside. He doesn't feel like he is returning home. Jasmim was wrong about that. He doesn't belong here. There are two possible places for a person. Family is one. The other is the whole world. Sometimes it isn't easy to figure out which one we are in.

After a night of sleep like any other, he wakes up on October 30, 2008, in a dirty, mold-infested apartment, with no money and no job but with no fear either. He phones a laundry service and arranges to have them pick up his dirty clothes. He phones Saucepan, who tells him that at the moment there is no way he can have his old job as swimming instructor back. The new instructor is doing well, and he has no reason to replace him. Besides which, it wouldn't be fair to the guy. The number of people using the pool has actually picked up a little. He tells Saucepan that it's not a problem and congratulates him on the success of the gym. Then he goes out for lunch and stops at an ATM to withdraw the last of his savings. He phones Sara and asks if she thinks Douglas would agree to fix his teeth and let him pay the following month, presuming he doesn't know anything about the day of the barbecue, etc. She calls him back a few minutes later with an appointment time. Back at the apartment, he starts cleaning. He is scrubbing the floor with bleach when he hears someone clapping to get his attention outside the window. He doesn't recognize the strong, tanned young man smiling at him.

Good afternoon.

Afternoon. Who are you?

Don't you remember me, Tom Hanks?

He invites the man in.

All I can offer you is cold water.

No problem. I stopped by here a few days ago to see if you'd survived, but the windows were shut. Are you okay?

I'm still a bit weak. I spent a few days in the hospital. I had a bad bout of pneumonia.

Do you remember what happened that day on the beach?

Yep. I fell off a headland near Pinheira in the middle of the storm and swam all night trying to get to a beach.

And you ended up on Siriú? From Pinheira to Siriú?

I guess so. I must have caught a current.

Beta comes through the door and goes to drink water from her bowl.

So that's the dog you went to get back from the guy.

You hear about it?

Everyone heard about it. They told me not to come and see you.

Huh? Why?

I dunno. People invent stories.

What stories?

The man raises his eyebrows.

Forget it, he says. Tell me something, when's that course for volunteer lifeguards that you told me about?

End of November. It runs for three weeks. There's a theoretical component and a practical one. The problem's the practical component. They put you through the wringer.

But if you pass, you'll have work all summer?

It starts just before Christmas and goes until Carnival, at least.

How much does it pay?

It's pretty good. A hundred
reais
a day. Even counting days off, you bring in over two thousand a month. Did you mean what you said? About giving me a hand with my swimming?

I meant it. But I want to do the course too. Where do you sign up?

At the fire department. Over in Palhocinha.

Great. Just give me a few more days 'cause I'm still a bit weak, but we can start next week. Meet me here at eight in the morning, even if it's raining, if there's a northeasterly blowing, whatever. What's your name?

Aírton. Are you going to charge me for it?

Absolutely not. Take down my phone number.

After Aírton leaves and the laundry lady stops by to pick up his clothes, he takes Beta for a walk along the beach and is still thinking about the course for lifeguards when he remembers a story that was born, lived a long life, and died in his own mind, or at least was dead until now, a story that he had started imagining for no apparent reason when he was about twelve or thirteen and continued imagining until the end of his adolescence. It was just a sketch or daydream that never came to a conclusion worthy of the name but that always began in the same manner. He'd be sitting on the beach looking out to sea, when he'd see someone waving for help out in the deep water. After swimming past the surf, he'd discover that the person drowning was a girl his age, a girl who gradually got older as he imagined the scene year after year. He would pull her out of the sea, and she'd cough up water and lie on the sand, weary and breathless. Sometimes she'd be wearing clothes; other times she'd be in a bikini. Her skin was always very white, her hair always black, straight, and long. Her eyes were blue. She wasn't anyone he knew or came to know. After recovering enough to stand up and walk, she'd thank him with a hug or just a word and a look, and she'd run off down the beach without looking back, her thin arms swinging, until she disappeared along a path through the dunes. Months would go by, sometimes years. He imagined he was older than he was. These futures varied, but in all of them he'd find the girl again, and she'd be in a terrible state. She had suffered at the hands of men or had become an addict of some sort. A suicide. A wandering orphan. She'd end up crying. Her hair would stick to her cheeks streaked with tears. The slightly older version of himself that was now the protagonist of the story had spent months or years looking for the girl, imagining who she was, how she had come to be out in the deep, where she had gone after disappearing down the beach, and now she reappeared, and he loved her. It was that simple. Nothing easier than loving a nameless girl who was a mere idea, delivered to him by fate, vulnerable and sensuous, ready to be rescued, run away, and reappear. But she hated him. Sometimes she accused him of saving her against her will. Why did you pull me out of the water? You shouldn't have. More often she would accuse him of abandoning her. How could you have abandoned me? How could you have let me go? But I saved you, he'd argue. She'd shake her head, saying no. Why didn't you ask my name? Why didn't you hold my hand? Why didn't you come running after me? Why did you let me go? You didn't want me. And to him it all seemed terribly unfair. How was he supposed to have known? He'd done what had to be done. He'd done everything that could have been done. How unfair it was that she could look back after so long and accuse him of not having done something differently at the time. Didn't she remember running off without a word? Sometimes there was a sexual tension in this conflict, sometimes he felt sheer desperation. It ended in that, in the intrinsic unfairness of the act of looking back, of daring to imagine a past different from the one that had brought him to precisely where he was now. He imagined variations on this story for years on end. In all of them, he ended up alone. It never occurred to him to tell it to someone, write it down, draw it. Why this story? Why any story? Where had it come from, and where had it been all this time?

H
e sees a pair of gray-green
eyes
above fleshy cheeks with dimples that frame a pearly, expectant smile. Light olive skin and thick, peeling lips almost the same color, just a little rosier. He knows the nose ring in one of the nostrils and the small scar right in the middle of the forehead, but he is unable to retrieve the entire face from memory. Long black hair tumbling over the shoulders. His eyes take in every quadrant of this face in the space of a breath, and he could swear he's never seen this woman before in his life, but he suddenly knows who she is. Something tells him. He thought about her a few days ago and always knew she would come someday. At the same instant in which he recognizes her, she gets a fright and her smile gives way to a pained expression.

Shit! What happened to you?

I got a little roughed up in a fight, he says smiling.

You never were the brawling sort.

Some guys stole my dog. Beta. I went to get her back, and they didn't like it.

She tilts her head and narrows her eyes as if she doesn't believe him. They stare at each other for a while. He feels his body swaying softly to the rhythm of his racing heartbeat and sees Viviane's chest inflating and emptying like a bellows. Organs working to feed brains at the peak of activity, almost paralyzed by the millions of things to be said.

Did you recognize my face when you opened the door?

No. But I recognized you.

How?

You know how.

She nods and tries to blow away some hairs that are falling over her face. He realizes that both of her hands are occupied with some kind of frame wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

Even after all this time?

Guess so.

Well,
I
almost didn't recognize
you
. You're so thin.

I know. There are several reasons. Among which pneumonia.

Pneumonia? You never used to get sick. Just colds.

I got water in my lungs.

How did that happen?

I fell off the top of a headland and had to swim all night to get to a beach.

You can't be serious.

You look beautiful. You seem happy. I look at your photos sometimes.

Are you going to let me in?

She is wearing a military-looking burgundy coat with large pockets and a belt of the same color at the waist. Black jeans and boots adorned with metallic buckles. Everything looks expensive and elegant, different from the little summer dresses and department store tracksuits that clothe the image of her that inhabits his memory. She takes a few steps into the living room and looks around. Her tall figure in the morning light looks like something straight out of a fashion magazine and contrasts with the secondhand furniture of the apartment.

Your mother told me you were living in front of the beach, but I imagined something different. This is practically in the water. What an incredible view. You could just about swim out the door, couldn't you?

It's what I do almost every day. Have a seat. I'll make us some coffee.

She leans the frame against the arm of the smaller sofa and sits. He fills the kettle with tap water.

When did you get here?

Last night. I got to Florianópolis in the afternoon and rented a car. I got a room in a bed-and-breakfast in front of the beach. It's so cheap in the off-season! The room's really nice. I think I'm the only guest.

You came alone, didn't you?

Yes.

He goes through four matches trying to light the stove.

I wanted to call to let you know I was coming, but your mother said your phone had been off or out of range for several days, and you closed your Facebook account too. Though you never did answer my messages anyway. Did you even see them? I sent you some text messages too, but you didn't answer. In the end I decided to come anyway because I'd already scheduled the time off from work, and I wasn't going to have another opportunity so soon. I hope it's not a problem. I don't want to be a bother.

No problem. I've been a bit out of touch with the world.

You never answered any of my messages. I came to the conclusion you didn't want to have any contact with me. But I came anyway. Because, after all, I know how things work with you. If I were to wait for a reply . . .

It's nice to see you. I think—

He considers what to say as he spoons coffee into the filter.

—I read your messages for a while, but I dunno, Viv. I didn't really feel like chatting on Facebook. It's not that I didn't want to talk to you.

No, I understand.

It was great to open the door and see you. Really great. It's nice to see you in person.

I've been worried about you. Everyone has. Especially after all this rain, the flooding. And then you up and disappear all of a sudden. Was there a lot of damage here?

Not here.

I kept seeing all those people dying on TV. They say it was the biggest flood in the history of Santa Catarina. There was all that construction work on the highway. I'm glad it didn't affect you.

He hears Beta's paws as she comes out of the bedroom.

Beta, look who came to visit us. Someone you know.

Beta comes limping into the living room. She looks at Viviane and sniffs the air but doesn't approach her.

She got hit by a car, but she's okay now.

Viviane snaps her fingers and makes some sounds without much conviction to call Beta, but the dog just stands there in the middle of the room, out of reach. The two of them stare in silence at Beta, who in turn stares at nothing. Everything is frozen for a few seconds. The kettle starts to whistle.

So how are you holding up?

I'm fine. They messed up my face a bit. The worst thing was the pneumonia, but I'm over it.

After your dad's death, I mean.

Oh. I'm okay. I miss him. But that's to be expected.

I wanted to go to his funeral, but I'd just started my new job and couldn't get the time off.

You told me on the phone. You don't have to justify yourself. Everything's okay, really. What's done is done. Keeping Beta has helped me deal with it. Sometimes I remember him, and I feel sad, but we didn't even visit each other all that often, you know? He was in pretty poor health. But he had a good heart. After he killed himself, I think that became clearer. He was good for everyone in his own twisted way. We never wanted for anything, if you think about it. I remember him holding me by the scruff of the neck and giving me advice. He'd hold on tight and start telling me some home truths. Dad always knew what he was doing. He made quick decisions and never went back on them. He made a decision.

Dante was really upset. He can't accept it.

That's his problem.

He goes back into the kitchen and pours the boiling water into the filter.

Dante was also upset that he didn't see you at the funeral. You left early, didn't you? You missed each other.

We didn't miss each other. I left before he got there on purpose. Dante can fuck himself. And I don't want to talk about him right now.

The hiatus in the conversation is filled by the smell of coffee and the sound of the waves crashing into the rocks near the window. He returns with two coffee mugs, gives one to Viviane, and sits on the other sofa. She is so beautiful. His coffee making hasn't kept him with his back turned long enough for him to forget her face. When they lived together, he used to play a secret game where he would test how long he could remember the face of the woman he loved or try to look at her often enough so as not to forget her for an entire morning or a whole day. In the beginning it was easy, then it grew harder, and at some point he lost the will to try, but seeing her again now, after more than two years, the game makes sense again. He decides to put it in practice. He won't lose sight of her. He won't let her face escape his memory until she leaves again. When she walks out the door, he will hold her face in his memory at the same time as he remembers how they met at the pool where he was teaching, she in a black bathing suit and blue swimming cap, swimming clumsily with her tall, strong body, stopping at the edge of the pool to breathe and chat, letting her guard down for an invitation to go out for a beer. The house brimming with books where she lived with her rich parents before she moved in with him in a horrible apartment in Cidade Baixa, surrounded by noisy bars and schizophrenic neighbors. Her face will start to fade, but the memories of what they did together won't. The first time they went to the seaside together and camped in a deserted campsite at Christmas. Her coming out of the water in the middle of the deserted beach shaking with cold, covered in goose bumps, not noticing the blood running down her thighs, and cringing with shame when he told her. Lying on her back on top of him in the damp, stuffy inside of the tent, having little convulsions after she came. Them looking at themselves in the mirror together. Their bodies were so beautiful, it was agonizing. She used to say that the human body was fortunate. It didn't make much sense, but it was what she said, as if
fortunate
were a synonym for
beautiful
or something of the sort. He never corrected her. The one who was right about words was her, always her. He didn't read books, and she didn't watch him compete, but it didn't seem to matter. It will take a few minutes for her face to disappear. Then all that will be left is a blur. It doesn't matter what he feels for someone, it always happens. But he won't allow it to happen as long as she is in his apartment. He makes the most of her being there. One, two, three, go.

Tell me about yourself. How's life in São Paulo?

I'm well. Really well. We've bought an adorable apartment in Pinheiros. One of those old ones with high ceilings that you've got to be on a waiting list to get. I went to all the small real estate agents in the neighborhood, where the agents are really old and only know how to use fax machines, and I left a description of what I wanted and asked them to call me when something appeared. The owner of this apartment had health problems and went to live with one of her children, and they put it on the market. The agent called me the same day and told me to go and see it because it'd be gone in a week. We were so lucky. I spent ages freelancing, making contacts, and then at the beginning of this year I got a job working in the children's book department of a publishing house, which I love. I get to work with writers, translators,
amazing
illustrators. I went to Flip in July. Have you heard of it? It's a literary festival that takes place in Paraty. The program includes Flipinha, which covers children's literature. I worked my backside off, but it was great fun. Dante went with me. He might even be invited to be a guest speaker next time round, if he manages to finish his book by the end of the year. Noll was there, a writer I like a lot. We had some great chats with Verissimo. He talked a lot! He always struck me as so shy that I used to think he was mute.

Verissimo's the one who does those cartoon strips with snakes, right?

That's him. And I'm writing a weekly column about books and the publishing industry for a newspaper's website, and sometimes they ask me to do reviews too. The cultural life in São Paulo is something else. Porto Alegre isn't bad, but in São Paulo it's endless. It's a bit scary even. It's a city that doesn't seem to let a person feel good when they're isolated, even if their isolation is voluntary, if they want a breather. For example, I don't know if you'd feel good there long term. It's an aggressive place for introspective sorts. There's a bewildering range of wonderful things to do, see, and eat all the time, and there's a kind of cosmic ether of interesting people, power, and money that inflates ambitions and makes you feel a little guilty to stay home with your phone off reading
Harry Potter
or thinking about life and eating chocolate, you know? By the way, changing the subject, did you see that Obama won?

Who?

Obama. He was elected. I saw it last night on TV in the restaurant. He won. The first black president of the United States. “Yes we can.” I wanted to download his speech on my iPhone, but there's no 3G coverage here. I bought an iPhone! Look. Have you seen one? It's Apple's cell phone. A friend got it for me in the United States.

What are you talking about, Viv?

You know who Obama is, don't you? For heaven's sake.

Of course I do. Wittgenstein's friend.

The old inside joke gets a chuckle out of her. Shortly after they met, back when Viviane was still studying journalism at the Federal University and taking some optional classes in philosophy in her free time, she tried to impart to him all the enthusiasm she felt for the
Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus,
which she had read after a teacher talked about it in class. It ended in an argument. After that he'd jokingly evoke the philosopher's name whenever she started ranting on a subject that he couldn't follow either because he lacked the cultural references or wasn't up to date with it. Part of the joke was hearing her out patiently and even encouraging her to go on, only to make some kind of reference to Wittgenstein at the end, which meant he'd been completely lost for some time.

I know who Obama is. I just didn't know he'd won the election yesterday, and I don't know why you're talking about your new cell phone now.

You asked about São Paulo, and I started talking, and I don't know where I was going with it, sorry. I'm a bit nervous. You think it's easy for me to be here?

No, of course not. I don't really know what to say either.

She takes a sip of coffee and indicates the package with her chin.

I brought you a present.

Can I open it now?

She nods. He stands, goes to get a serrated knife from the kitchen, takes the package, and sits on the sofa with it. He cuts the string and tears off the brown paper, to reveal a large framed portrait.

It's your dad, says Viviane, taking care to let him know before he finds himself faced with the cruel challenge of identifying the person in the portrait.